


Someone Good

by HMGfanfic



Series: Indefinite Pronouns [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Rewrite, Caramel Heart-Eyes to end, Character Study, Eliot POV, Emotional Baggage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Hard Glossy Armor to start, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, again "enemies" is a little strong, still no love for canon in this house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HMGfanfic/pseuds/HMGfanfic
Summary: “It really was a shame the first year was friends with Todd, but what could you do? Eliot didn’t fraternize with the help and this Quentin was certainly no exception.”In every timeline, Eliot and Quentin find their way to each other. Including this one. No Beast, no quests, yet including the greatest challenge of all—a timeline where Quentin’s exam guide and first friend was, uh… Todd. AKA, Missing and alternate scenes from “Something Good,” an epic length Magicians’ rom-com. This time, from the sharper perspective.(Or: In which Eliot’s armor slowly, surely unravels.)





	Someone Good

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Long time, no posting. Lots of writing though.
> 
> For the record, I think this piece can stand on its own even if you haven’t read Something Good, but some of the connective tissue may be lost. And you totally have time to read a (soon-to-be) 150K fan fiction romantic comedy right? ;)
> 
> Also, this is rated M because, well, it’s Eliot.
> 
> FYI: Epilogue for Something Good is still in progress, each day. But I’m ever-so-slightly writer’s blocked so wanted to work on a couple of other things in the meantime, to get the juices flowing. It'll be up soon-ish though, slight emphasis on "ish" (it's long, long, long.)
> 
> \--
> 
> This guy here coincides with Part I of "Something Good."

Eliot Waugh had never been a _first year boy._

Even during his own inaugural year at Brakebills, Eliot collected them like coins, categorized in their naïveté and doe eyes. Particularly, he huddled them up close upon the way they gravitated to him like he was a sexual savant or perhaps their salvation, introducing them to a big wide world that not even magic could guarantee. It was a lovely, heady symbiosis—him, the practiced deviant and hedonist; them, the willing and yearning. And thus, all were satisfied and enraptured, respectively. Poets couldn't have written the connection better, even in those early, restless days before he'd completely found his footing at the graduate institution, back when cracks still occasionally made their way through the brittle armor. For that, Eliot held immense gratitude to those classmates of his, both for their wholeheartedly energetic company and for their tempering agency against any deeper calls from within.

Yet, despite their same age and lessons and— _ugh_ —dormitory living before the balm of the Cottage, no one ever mistook them as actual peers. Least of all the boys themselves.

Eliot came to Brakebills with more experience, sexually or otherwise, than any of the _first year boys_ had in their tiniest fawning glances his way. It wasn’t only clear to him, but to everyone who encountered him. Debauched party animal though he was, Eliot knew he carried himself with a certain type of gravitas that well exceeded his twenty-four years. He held no internal doubt that he could hold his own amongst diplomats and sultans, were he interested in such bureaucratic tedium.

And it was because of this inherent grandeur and blithe confidence that Margo once called him an old soul. Naturally, he’d corrected her—Jesus, he’d never be old. Instead, Eliot was a classic soul, mean and clean, with panache. In truth, within days after passing the entrance exam, he held untold power, and his reputation preceded him before he could even say _Your room or mine_?

With a soft, lazy chuckle over his most recent impeccable drink, Eliot snapped his suspenders once and slid his gaze across the amber-lit panorama of his domain. He blithely twisted his thumbs, clapped once, and music blasted through the Cottage in all its late aughts cheese and harsh driving beat glory, contrasted with the glinting towers of high-end liquor, clouds of smoke, and telekinetically moving lights, all in preparation, all to set the aesthetic.

 _Shawty had them apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur  
_ _The whole club was looking at her_

The song was objectively awful. Beneath him, beneath all of them. Even debased, on a fair reading.

 _She hit the floor, next thing you know  
_ _Shawty got low, low, low_

It was fucking perfect.

Eliot pulled a smoke out from behind his ear and lit the end with magic, the tip glowing fiery orange and singeing the air. Irony and sex dripped from the ceilings, just as he cultivated,effortlessly, instinctively, yet with all the hidden machinations at his endless disposal. Tilting his head upward with his lips pursed and his cigarette balancing delicately in his long fingers, he blew smoke into the ether, laughing.

It was the first day of classes. It was exam day. It was the best day of the fucking year.

And everything would have been off to a truly glorious start, if only he could think so highly of the help.

He shot a sharp glance over at the corner daybed, where Todd had dropped yet another glass filled with the precious ambrosia that was the Cottage’s signature cocktail. With a squeaking self-directed admonishment, he glanced around nervously, like a scared rabbit in fear of the hawk, and ran his fingers through his overly gelled hair in a frenzy. After taking a few deep breaths, Todd sprung into his pathetic version of “action” and pressed a paper towel into the ground, because of course he wasn’t adept enough at telekinesis to clean it magically. Frustrated at Fucking Todd’s incompetence, as per usual, Eliot pressed his fingers into his brow with a low growl, always having to do everything his damn self. He flicked out his fingers three times and instantly the liquid raised out of the rug kinetically. He flew it out the open window with as little fanfare and snapped it shut, wanting to keep fresh air out of the humid, smoky room. In response, Todd merely gave him a goofy thumbs up.

_Ugh._

That one would always be a first year boy. Bless his irritating fucking heart.

Thank fuck Eliot had never fucked him, he thought as he slowly made his way closer to his so-called classmate, ready to inspect the fruits of his indelicate labor. Not because Todd was necessarily _un_ attractive, per se. Thin face, wide eyes, full lips. He was nothing on paper that shouldn’t have been worth a blow job, exactly once. But the earnestness behind those wide eyes, the cloying fucking eagerness. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Ever.

“How do these look, Eliot?” Todd asked, smiling up and over the remaining survivors of his piss poor work. With a single glance, he could tell that Todd was like a toddler with chalk, trying to appropriate Da Vinci. It was probably Eliot’s fault for trusting him to begin with.

“Not great, Todd,” Eliot said, pursing his lips. “For one thing, they’re blue.”

Todd blinked, “Wait, I thought they were supposed to be—?”

“They’re supposed to be _turquoise_ ,” Eliot said, disbelieving that he had to spell out something so goddamn simple. “These are Crayola blue. What did you even use for the stabilizing effect? Juniper seeds?”

Todd averted his eyes guiltily. Jesus Christ, he’d actually used juniper seeds.

Eliot crossed his arms and stared at him, waiting. Todd was a complete idiot, but even birds could memorize simple shit. He’d get there.

“Oh,” Todd widened his eyes. “Oh, right. It’s supposed to be borage bloss—”

“Borage blossom, Todd,” Eliot said, speaking right over him, confirming and correcting. “It’s _always_ borage blossom. Throw these out and start over.”

“Oh, uh,” Todd cleared his throat, licking his lips. Nervous tic. “I actually don’t have time? I have to meet a prospective student. You know, it’s exam day.”

As though Eliot wasn’t incredibly aware.

_Idiot._

“Poor planning on your end does not constitute an emergency on mine,” Eliot said, taking a grimacing sip of one of Todd’s drinks. It was too acidic and too sweet at the same time. It tasted like it was gin-based, instead of cloaked in a vast mystery. It was terrible. “So tell me again why your bullshit excuse is my problem?”

“It’s not,” Todd said quickly. “But, well, you’re right that it’s definitely mine. All mine. And well, the student due to come up the quad in the next half-hour or so, and I really need to go meet him so he doesn’t lose his way and miss the test.”

Eliot sucked his cheeks in between his teeth and muttered the serenity prayer under his breath. He knew that it would take all the strength in the known universe—through whichever merciful theist deity that would deign to listen to Eliot Waugh, of all heretical souls—to change Todd into someone who could do even the simplest task without entirely fucking it up and fucking over Eliot, the Physical Kids, and all of Brakebills in the goddamn process.

“Todd,” Eliot said, pressing his fingers to his lips and closing his eyes, seeking to impart his seriousness on the simpleton. “The signature cocktail is the centerpiece of our parties. It is the first introduction to the hedonistic decadence we promise with every breath we take. Without it, we’re nothing. Do you understand?”

“No,” Todd said, light and breathy, tilting his head into the sun with wide eyes never wavering from Eliot’s every word. Eliot closed his eyes tighter and clenched his fists for exactly ten seconds before popping all four back open and fixing Todd with as neutral an expression as he could manage.

“You don’t need to understand the philosophy,” he sighed, smoothing down his vest. “But you do need to understand the _practicality_ that I am far too fucking busy to tend to the menial, thankless work of preparing the batches. That's your job. To refresh your memory, it’s the job for which you willingly, fucking gleefully signed up.”

“I know, but I’ve still really got to get this guy to the exam and—”

“Are you trying to cockblock me, Todd?” Eliot asked, tapping his foot and crossing his arms. “Because I’ve always been very clear that these cocktails are essential for solidifying my prowess as an aesthete, early on.”

Todd looked genuinely affronted at the suggestion and didn’t even smirk at the clever pun. Idiot.

“I would never cockblock you, Eliot,” he said, resolute of face and complete with an actual Scout’s Honor. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

A ringing bell and a purring leopard laughed from behind him and a slow smile melted onto Eliot's lips.

“Except cockblocks are gonna fuckin’ cockblock,” the most wonderful voice in the entire fucking world called from the door, which burned in the bright white light of a portal. “And you, Todd, are a goddamn natural cockblock.”

...And in sinful, prayerful unison, the angels sang a grateful chorus and the devils danced in delight.

“You’re late,” Eliot said airily, glaring at Margo, who stormed her way into the center of the room. Rightfully, Todd ducked his head low, in deep regard for the Queen of Brakebills, the most stunning and earth-shattering woman in any room. She glanced quickly at the boy before snorting out a derisive laugh and focusing all of her attention back to Eliot, where it was meant to be.

“The world is early,” she said, floating over to kiss him on the mouth. “Miss me?”

“Never.” Eliot twirled her around until she giggled out a breathy laugh.

It had been a horrible two weeks since he’d last seen her, all because she’d fucked off with some guy to Switzerland, of all goddamn places. Every single second since had been torture. Not that Eliot hadn’t taken his own trips throughout the break in classes, of course. Much as he loved the Cottage and the nothingness of summer, he couldn’t actually sit still for three whole months. But Margo had actually taken a real vacation, away from him and their beautiful life together. It had been a truly terrible idea and he hoped she felt very badly for it.

But in truth, all he really wanted to do was drink in her comforting presence, now and forever. Nothing and no one had ever come close to the way Margo made his soul spark and he couldn’t imagine there would ever—fucking _ever_ —be anyone who could approach his heart in any approximate way. Feeling uncharacteristically sappy and nostalgic, he wrapped her in a close hug against his chest and sighed. How he had ever survived those first two weeks of Brakebills—back when he was that swaggering first year, on the prowl, all on his sad yet successful little lonesome—was entirely beyond him.

He could still picture that day, clear in his mind’s eye.

_Eliot lit a cigarette as he ascended the sweeping cherry wood staircase to the first-year dorms, the fucking bane of his existence, not caring one bit about the firm restrictions against smoke in the corridors. If they were going to make him live sequestered in cinderblock with a dull, small dicked Illusionist called Mario, like a commoner, he was going to smoke whenever the fuck he goddamn wanted._

_But as he rounded the corner, he was greeted with a new sight, one that finally piqued his interest and set fire to his weary mind. Several first-years, boys and girls alike, stood naked in the hallway, avec big bold onyx ribbons around their necks in intricate knots and bows. They posed in varying levels of flexibility, all bowed and honoring the tiny woman at the center, dressed to the nines in a fitted black and spiked dress, dominatrix style. She held a single gem-encrusted whip and she smacked the popper against her free palm with each clack of her six-inch stilettos against the linoleum. Above her, in a wide and shimmering banner of red and black, smooth as the woman’s poreless cheeks, read Δ Τ Φ._

_If Eliot had never believed in love at first sight before that moment, he had been a stupid man._

_He laughed, loudly and brightly, completely enamored with the blatant and bold display of authority in front of him. In his many years of troubles and his increasing awareness that nothing was worthwhile and that all people were fuck-ups who were bound to deeply disappoint you, it was rare that he was impressed, by anyone, especially quickly. Yet the stunning powder keg in front of him somehow managed without speaking a single word or even a smarting glance at him. So what could Eliot do but clap his hands several times, slowly, entirely wow’d at her dazzle? And as he did, he caught her impossibly big eyes with a wide grin behind his cigarette, clenched between his front teeth._

_In response, she simply looked him up and down, then smirked._

_“Wanna pledge, waistcoat?” She’d asked, all perky tits and venom._

_“Pledge?” He laughed again, stalking his way toward her like the wolf to the fawn. “Honey. I command.”_

_Her lips twisted into a tiny pout and she giggled, jutting her hip out in a way he’d soon grow to know more intimately than any of his own carefully cultivated mannerisms._

_“Hmm,” she said, circling him back, telegraphing clearly that she was no prey. Her giant eyes fluttered up at him exactly once, before smacking his ass with the whip. “Okay. That’s clear. Along with the outline of your enormous dick in those linen pants of yours.”_

_“I wield it expertly,” Eliot said, low and smirking. She tilted her small face up to him with a genuine bright smile and he was forever gone._

_“Interest in pussy,” she demanded, tapping her chin and narrowing her eyes. “Scale of one to ten. Ten is if you eat it for breakfast.”_

_Eliot cocked his head, considering the notion seriously._

_“Depends on the day,” he answered honestly, resting his hand along one of the shoulders of the pledges, supporting his weight casually. “On average, I’d clock it at a two. Up to four though, especially if I’ve taken copious amounts of MDMA.”_

_Her face blossomed with approval and she finally said, “I’m Margo.”_

_“Eliot,” he said, dragging on his cigarette once and stepping closer to her, his eyes raking in her perfect body and the intoxicating scent of unadulterated power._

_“We’re gonna have fun, Eliot,” Margo said with a wink. He gripped her hip and chuckled low._

_“We certainly are, Bambi,” he said, before blowing smoke in her face at the incredulous question marks in her doe eyes. “Why, because you’re evidently the height of sweet innocence. Seemed a natural endearment.”_

_“You’re sexy, a total asshole, and way too fuckin’ clever for any of these idiots,” she said, snapping her face into his and biting his lower lip without a hesitation. He’d met his soulmate. “My favorite combination.”_

_And from that day on, they never needed anyone else or anything else, except total dominion over every door they walked through._

Nuzzling his nose against her ear, back in the beautiful present moment, Eliot sighed and spun them both onto the couch until they collapsed in a heap. In the periphery, he was vaguely aware that Todd was still standing, antsy and dancing like someone who had to piss. He didn’t really care. It was Bambi time and Todd of all fuckers was certainly not going to get in the way.

“How was grand ol’ Züri?” Eliot asked, mostly wanting to hear her speak rather than out of any real interest. Switzerland really wasn’t a favorite of his. Too orderly, too perfect. Margo settled onto his lap and she stretched her arms backwards until they landed like a noose around his neck. Her violent affection always blossomed the ventricles deep in his heart.

“Dull as death,” she said lightly. “The lake parties were fine, but who can stand fresh mountain air that long? Even adjacent. Horrible.”

Eliot hummed out, concurring, before putting out his cigarette on the ash tray behind him. Bambi hated smelling like smoke.

“And what of Erich?” He cared even less about that answer. But Margo sighed wistfully, twisting her face to look right at him.

“Eliot, I fell in love,” she said, her hand on her heart. “Body and soul. Long distance will be tough, but I think our devotion will see us through.”

For a moment, Margo and Eliot looked at each other, their eyes locked in silence. Then, they burst out laughing, their perfect white teeth cackling into the air and tears running down their faces. She was a glorious bitch.

“God, could you fucking imagine?” Margo screeched out, shimmying tighter into the curve of his body, her petite form shaking with resonant laughter.

“I’d _kill_ you,” Eliot said, running his hands into her hair, massaging. “But then I’d grow despondent and wither away, because how could I possibly live without your utter lack of regard for social niceties?”

“You’re so jealous,” Margo grinned. “So bound by your social codes. You wish you could give as few shits as I do.”

“Always, darling,” Eliot buried his nose in that sweet-smelling hair of hers and knew it was all he needed. All they needed was each other, forever.

Well, that, and for Todd to do his goddamn _job_.

“You haven’t been dismissed,” Eliot said, still gazing blithely at the top of Margo’s head, as the idiot tried to sneak his way out the front door. “Your little prospie will survive one way or the other, even without your valiant tutelage, I’m certain. Back to work.”

Todd staggered to a stop, jangling the door knob beneath his sweaty palms and took a deep breath, like he was summoning an impossible courage.

“Eliot, I’m really sorry,” he said, mournfully, pathetically. He bit his lower lip and dropped his eyes. “But I really, really need to go. Fogg will kill me or—or, worse, never trust me again if I—”

“Huh,” Margo said, rolling off Eliot to rest her chin against the back of the couch, her eyelashes fluttering upward at Todd. “I always forget you’re Fogg’s bitch boy.”

“Well, uh,” Todd smiled widely. What a passive-aggressive tool. “I wouldn’t say ‘bitch boy’ so much as ‘respected member of the community.’”

“I have a migraine,” Eliot said pointedly, rubbing his temples. “Does this mean you’re _seriously_ abandoning your one and only useful purpose? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Being a student guide is important,” Todd said, softly, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet, covered in terribly tacky faux leather shoes. “They’re only for the prospectives who are likely to struggle with the transition and really need the support—“

Eliot had the patience of a fucking saint.

“So, in essence, you’re abandoning this party for an insecure dullard who will probably be dropped on their ass right after magnificently failing the exam,” he said, flat. What a joke. He didn’t have time for anyone’s sob stories. “What a sad life you lead.”

“I don’t know. I have a good feeling about this guy,” Todd said with a cloying smile, his eyes getting dreamy at the prospect of tricking someone into being his friend. “I read his file and he’s from New Jersey just like me, and—”

“New Jersey?” Margo curled her face up in disgust. “Shut the fuck _up_ , Todd.”

Eliot could have kissed her. So, he did. But after his lips left hers, she hummed out a delighted sound and sighed, ticking her beautiful brown eyes up at Eliot.

“Oh, it’s the best day of the year, El. Take pity on the kid,” she said, yawning for effect. “He can finish the batches when he gets back. Or we’ll make some other idiot do it.”

“Bambi,” Eliot said, admonishing. But she shrugged one shoulder up and puckered her lips out, dreamy and dangerous.

“Maybe Todd’s about to go meet the love of his life,” she said with a twinkly, false smile. “You never know.”

Todd sputtered, “Um, but it’s a guy. So I don’t think—”

Margo twisted her face at him. “Don’t be homophobic. Keep an open mind, asshole.”

“No one likes homophobes, Todd,” Eliot agreed, twisting around to match Margo’s stance, his chin resting on the couch. They both simperingly pouted at him. “So you should probably suck this guy’s dick to prove yourself tolerant.”

“Do it, Todd,” Margo said through her smiling shark teeth. “It’ll make you a thousand times more interesting. _I’d_ fuck you if you sucked this guy off, right there on the quad.”

And bless his hetero little heart, it was clear Todd was actually considering it. Not that there hadn’t been many a straight man who’d sucked Eliot’s dick just for the chance at Margo, but he suspected Todd’s thoughtfulness had more to do with gaining their overall approval than the chance at bedding the firecracker. In truth, Todd would probably piss himself the second Margo stripped naked, all earnest jumbled nerves and nauseating people-pleasing.

“I’m not a homophobe,” Todd said slowly. “But I also don’t want to—you know, _fellate_ anyone. Sorry. I’m sorry."

“You should be,” Margo deadpanned.

Todd scratched at his wrists, tugging at his terrible shirt, anxious and falling apart at the seams, “Can I seriously go though? Fogg said he’s going to be late, but that means it’s even more important that _I’m_ not late and—”

Eliot almost laughed, biting the inside of his mouth.

“Get out of my sight, Todd,” he finally said, relenting with a single wave. “But finish your work properly the second you get back.”

“Yes, sir,” Todd said, with a giant smile, rushing his way out the door, book in one hand and a salute on the other. “Yes—indeed, sir.”

The door slammed under Todd’s moronic frenzy and a single beat passed between him and Margo.

“Wanna do some Molly?” She finally asked, running her hands through her hair. “Hoberman’s got something that apparently makes you feel like you’re fucking a rainbow.”

Eliot slowly smiled and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead reverently. 

It was going to be a fucking _great_ year.

* * *

In the same vein, the party itself was exactly as great as Eliot knew it would be. It was as great as all of them had ever been, would ever be. In some ways, that repetitive inevitability would fill him with…well, _ennui_ felt dramatic. But perhaps he would feela sense of pointlessness, of redundancy, were it not for the incredible drugs he’d pumped magically through his bloodstream, with all thanks to the most talented drug dealing nerd he’d ever met in his entire life. And as the music was quieted and the last of the orgies was wrapping up, Eliot was treating himself to his favorite quiet want—the first _first year boy_ of the year.

That, though, wasn’t going quite as smoothly as anticipated.

The risks of unknown quantities, he supposed, with a exasperated snap of his eyelids. He’d picked between a few excitable options, but it turned out he may not have gone with the best of the fairly lackluster bunch. Ronald was eager, sure, but _fuck_ , he was boring and even worse at giving head. Not exactly a rousing start to the semester, Eliot had to admit with a sigh, as the first year pulled his mouth away from his mediocre work for the third time in five minutes.

“Could you, like, massage my jaw maybe?” He asked, his voice timid. Eliot dragged on his cigarette, unamused. “I have diagnosed a TMJ disorder, which stands for temporomandibular—”

“Jesus, okay,” Eliot growled, clamping his cigarette between his lips and bringing his hands to Ronald’s jaw hinges. “This must be hell for your social life.”

“It’s not the best thing in the world, but my ex-boyfriend was really—“The first year boy’s voice was muffled due to the literal cock in his mouth and Eliot would have laughed if he wasn’t so frustrated.

“Ronald, that was my fault,” Eliot dug his fingers into the tight muscles of his face with renewed vigor. “No talky zone, okay?”

“Okay,” his small voice answered, rising again for yet another break. Eliot was losing wood. “And it’s Raymond.”

“Sure, sorry,” Eliot said, leaning back against his bed frame and closing his eyes again, willing himself to just get a blow job, for the love of fucking god.

Thankfully, it happened.

Hooray.

After a few more aggravating stops and starts, it was done and Eliot was vaguely disappointed, but he came, so all in all,it was fine. Meanwhile, the boy wiped his face and gazed starry-eyed, with far too much interest in Eliot’s second pillow for anyone’s comfort.

“You might be the hottest guy I’ve ever seen,” Ronald—er, Raymond said, all light sighs and fluttering lashes. He was a little in love. It happened. “Definitely the hottest I’ve ever been with.”

“Thrilled to get your year started on the right foot,” Eliot said with a polite head nod. “But I’m actually the host of the party, so I need to get back at it.”

“I think it was winding down,” Ronald— _Raymond_ said, scooting his way onto the bed in a way that just wouldn’t do. “So if you wanted to relax a bit...”

“Look, kid,” Eliot said, clapping his hand on the boy’s knee. Ronald-Raymond brightened at the contact and it was almost sweet. “I’m sure someday you’ll light up the life of another dewy skinned co-ed, but that’s not what’s happening here. We had fun, now we move on."

“Oh,” Raymond-Ronald deflated, slightly crushed. It happened. “Oh, I see. I get it.”

“If it helps, it’s nothing personal,” Eliot said patting him off his bed in a single movement. “I pride myself on being clear about my intentions from the outset. I apologize if my signals were in some way confused.”

“No, I know you said that you weren’t interested in more than a hookup,” Reginald said with a frown. “I just thought maybe it was, you know, something that could change.”

“Rookie mistake,” Eliot said, with a half-grin. “If you want more than a quick mouth fuck here and there, try another corridor, okay?”

“Okay,” the boy said, his shoulders low and dejected as he walked toward the door. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“Of course it is,” Eliot smiled widely and shoved the boy out of his room, gently enough, by the scruff of his neck. With that, Robert was gone and Eliot stood in front of his full-length mirror, readying himself for round two. He straightened his tie and ran a fresh coat of gel through his frustration-mussed hair.

Funny thing was, he actually sort of meant what he’d said. Ronald seemed like a nice enough kid, with good bone structure and kind eyes. There were probably plenty of lusty men in the world who would take him under their wing, massaging his jaw with tenderness and care through each terrible blow job. Probably even a few of them who’d want to take him to get dinner before or after, or want to figure out what it was that made Ronald tick, what made him scared, what made him joyful. And maybe even a sacred one or two who would find Ronald’s skittering, mouth-breathing bright-eyed wonder to be the best thing they’d ever seen. Someone who believed that Ronald was the most precious and most perfect of all the first year boys in the entire world.

It just wasn’t Eliot.

And it would never be Eliot, even if Ronald had the qualities to actually endear himself to him. He didn’t, obviously, because he was _Eliot fucking Waugh_ and Ronald was a sweet little soul or whatever. Not his type. He needed ‘em a little sharper, a little more off-kilter, with unexpected charms, hidden under layers he could peel away like layers of unnecessary clothes. But even if Ronald had been all that and more—whatever the fuck “more” Eliot could even manage to stupidly dream of—it wasn’t happening.

He had a good life. He had his Bambi, his Cottage, his cocktails, and his boys. Starlight, sweet dreams, magical lube, who the fuck could ask for anything more? He’d finally started to master the darkness inside of him, the fucking telekinesis that was every bit the blessing-curse all the fairy tales ever warned. Finally, magic was just yet another tool he could wield, seeking more and more, taking all that life could give him, after it had withheld for so long.

Fucking with that tenuous equilibrium for something as foolish as— _whatever_? That was for hopeless grown children, seeking the same comfort from another figure in their lives that they once received from their favorite soft toy, the drool-caked Velveteen Rabbit or a patchwork teddy bear. He’d worked too hard to get to where he was for something so tragically stupid.

Eliot sighed, leveling himself with a glare in the mirror. Enough of his own maudlin blah. He was about to revive the party and embrace his hedonism, leveled up and brilliant. And nothing—absolutely _nothing_ —was going to get in the way of that. Ever.

* * *

Three weeks into term, on an overcast Tuesday, Eliot froze, slack-jawed, by the staircase when the Cottage door swung open to reveal a cute first year boy.

No.

Scratch that.

The door swung open to reveal the Platonic fucking Ideal of a first year boy, walking in as though it wasn’t completely unacceptable that he’d never shown his face at the Physical Kid’s Cottage prior to that moment. And really, it was honestly more like the the boy _stumbled_ in, all clumsy and lost and so absurdly delicious that Eliot could have done a chef’s kiss in the same instant.

When Mr. First Year stepped over the barrier, he missed the indent of the door frame and his left foot kicked up. His body flailed wildly for half a moment, with a low _Shit_ murmured under his breath, right before he nearly ate exactly that. But he caught himself at the last moment, his hand landing on the coat rack for balance, his face twitching in unadulterated panic. As he steadied himself with an embarrassed glance around the entryway, long strands of mouse brown hair fell over his face and he clutched at his bag, a drab, side-slung messenger style.

He wore a gray and blue flannel shirt that was about a size and a half too big on him, over an army green T-shirt. His fingernails were clean but coarsely cut, without any attention to the symmetry or length beyond the easiest single snap of drugstore clippers. His sneakers were both perilously close to being untied, loosening against each tentative step into the Cottage. He had terrible posture. He stood with a shy hunch of his shoulders, like he was trying to hide from the world, desperately willing it not to see him.

But Eliot saw him.

Fuck _goddamn_ he saw him.

To the undiscerning observer, the first year was as dull of a nothing nerd as anyone could find. But Eliot had always prided himself on being the most discerning person in any given room, and this one was certainly no exception. So when his expert eyes zeroed in, the details were thusly:

Cheekbones for days, under impossibly wide, soft brown eyes. Longer lashes than average. Glass-cutting jawline, with a rough five o’clock shadow. Cupid’s bow pink lips, that spasmed under a darting tongue every so often, in an apparently natural anxiety and uncertainty. Gentle and expressive hands, with a spattering of full hair on the knuckles and wrist, like a man’s. Lithe body, yet with broader than expected shoulders. Defined muscles under all those sad layers of fabric. Small, tight ass. And a _je n'ais se quoi_ delectably shrouded in a perfumed air of sadness and intellect, begging to be kissed into oblivion.

His chest made an odd thump, with a warm, tingling twist down to his stomach that didn’t usually accompany his most primal urges.

He smirked. He could already tell he was going to enjoy this one immensely.

That was, until—

“Welcome to the Physical Kid’s Cottage!” Todd came through the door behind the first year, clapping him on the back. Eliot’s stomach turned on him, a painful nausea burning through his innards. The slow motion train wreck continued though, as the boy turned his face at a slight angle upward—Todd was a couple of inches taller—and a tiny smile rested on those lips of his. His warm eyes focused entirely on Todd and he said something low, unheard from Eliot’s vantage point, and Todd gleaned a bright smile back at him before stretching his arms out widely, in a unpolished approximation of Eliot himself.

“Also known as, where yours truly hangs his hat and his heart every night.”

After that, Todd winked at the new kid, because Todd was the absolute worst. But the first year smiled again, like he thought Todd was the best.

_What the fuck?_

Todd pressed his hand into the boy’s back and led him deeper into the party house, still talking in that shrill voice of his, saying, “Not to boast, but we’re the best group on campus. And we have the best drinks.”

The first year raised his eyebrows once with an unexpected wryness that turned Eliot’s heart liquid for a tiny pointless moment, until he snapped his spine and attention to its rightful place. There was nothing to get attached to here, especially in light of the most damning evidence of all.

Which was that—

Huh.

Huh.

_Huh._

So the first year boy was _friends_ with _Todd_. Willingly. Happily. Truly.

Eliot sucked his teeth under his lips, a hit of irrational anger pounding his back. He cracked his neck, his nostrils flaring with sharp frustration.

He centered himself.

Eliot was often falsely accused of being prone to dramatics, but this time he knew he actually was having an over-the-top reaction. Who cared if the delicious little first year was friends with Todd? It wasn’t Eliot’s problem if he had no brains and no taste. Really, he’d worked himself up over nothing. Less than nothing. Hell, for all he knew, the first year boy would have gaped at his advances and said little more than _No homo_ or some shit.

 _Please_ , the devil on his shoulder scoffed, with a haughtier laugh than Eliot even managed on his haughtiest day. _Fucking look at him. He’d be begging for it in seconds._

He let his eyes flutter closed for a brief moment. Then, he brought himself back up to his rightful looming position and blinked away his desire.

Oh well.

It would have been an enjoyable fuck or two, but _c’est la vie_. For if Eliot had any real deal breakers when it came to people’s mouths around his cock, being a package deal with Fucking Todd was easily among the top three. (It was after poor hygiene, but slightly before sincerely enjoying the song “Hotel California.”) And yes, sure, the reality was slightly disappointing, but it was hardly the end of the world. He was certain he’d find something or someone to soothe himself with, quickly and without a single glance backward at the little nerd. All was well.

But just as Eliot was about to turn back to the growing social gathering, with aim to turn it into a proper impromptu party, he peripherally saw Fucking Todd hand the first year boy one of the Eliot’s prized and famed signature cocktails _without even fucking asking his permission_ , and all that was left was white blind rage.

Todd was such a bumbling, entitled shithead.

Silent and lethal, he skulked over to the obnoxious pair and snatched the drink right out from under the first year’s beautiful, annoying hands.

“Todd,” Eliot spoke quietly between his teeth at the insufferable fool before him. “You know the rules. Your little friend here needs to earn his keep before he gets the good stuff.”

He didn’t spare a second glance at the first year. He’d seen all he needed to see.

“Come on,” Todd said simperingly, big eyes blinking up with as ass kisser’s grin. “I can vouch for him.”

Now, that was actually almost funny, except that Todd was somehow serious. Were he a better person, Eliot would have pitied him. But he was certainly _not_ a better person.

“That’s supposed to move me?” He couldn’t help the short laugh that snuck its way out. “A vouch from the illustrious _Todd_?”

The first year cleared his throat, a firm and dry sound. Eliot ignored it.

“All homage, of course, to The Party King,” Todd said, with a literal fucking bow, like he had no clue what else he could possibly say.He was the most pathetic person who’d ever lived.

Eliot rolled his eyes deeply, taking a sip of the drink he’d rightfully reclaimed. A slow, tense moment passed between them as he stared him down, in all his unworthiness. Beads of sweat formed along Todd’s hairline, as though it started to occur to him exactly how much shit he was actually in for this particular faux pas. But as they continued their silent dance of Eliot ensuring his own dominance over the fool of fools, he felt a shuffling at his side, a sudden heat burning into his arm without any physical touch.

A soft voice spoke, “Um, I’m Quentin.”

The first year was talking to him. Introducing himself.

What on—?

 _Fuck_.

Eliot’s spinal cord shuddered under the gentle weight of the unexpected politeness, draped in a lovely and warm and hesitant voice. Fuck him if he didn’t see stars for a moment, like a sap far beneath his own well-hewn sensibilities. His heart swelled against the bones of his rib cage, his chest uncomfortably full and electric.

But because he wasn’t a pathetic moron like Todd, he simply blinked at the disconcerting intrusion, gathered his wits together, and continued as was written.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Eliot said, still not sparing another glance. He refused to be charmed, not by Todd’s little friend, no matter how much he clearly had what Eliot often referred to as Pouty Resting Face, which was his utter _favorite_. But that was neither here nor there.

Tensing his jaw, Eliot let out a breath through his teeth and pressed his lips together. It really was a shame the first year was friends with Todd, but what could you do? Eliot didn’t fraternize with the help and this Quentin was certainly no exception. So instead of dwelling, he waved Todd away, his rings clinking together delightfully as he did.

“Fuck off now, you know where the well drinks are.”

He started to turn around then, his points well made, when a pretty, petty little indignant sound sputtered out next to him.

“You’re not literally a king, you know that, right?” The first year boy’s voice carried in a high-pitched tenor, teetering and frustrated. “You can’t just boss people around. Todd lives here too.”

The world paced in slowest motion.

Eliot touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth, before moving the full weight of his considerable gaze to _Quentin_. The boy had screwed his mouth up in a show of determination, his arms crossed tightly into his chest. He was glaring at Eliot, like an annoyed kitten to a immovable ball of yarn.

Honestly, he had half a mind to throw him against the wall and fuck the ever-loving insubordination out of him, right there, in front of everyone. But instead, Eliot let himself laugh, just a small huff of air through his lips. Because it really was funny. It would have been even charming, were it not so irritatingly obnoxious and presumptuous—this sweet, yet ballsy little child with no sense of propriety or respect for the natural hierarchy.

Of course, he’d learn. They all did.

“Watch yourself, Todd’s Friend,” Eliot tilted his head, trying to stay as gentle as he could in the face of such unearned audacity. “Learn the lay of the land before you declare any wars.”

“What the fuck?” Todd’s Friend’s eyebrows shot up, like _Eliot_ was the ridiculous one. “Who said anything about war? I’m just advocating for—”

Advocating. Fucking adorable. Fucking annoying. But more than anything, Eliot was getting bored. He clenched his hand around his flask.

“First years don’t get to advocate shit,” he said airily, truly hating that he even had to explain himself. “We’ll see if you’re even around in a few weeks.”

He lifted the corner of his mouth in triumph when this _Quentin’s_ eyes faltered at the notion of failing out of Brakebills. As though the idea hadn’t occurred to him, even though the professors basically treated first years like the walking dead—pointless entities who may be revived at some point, but were essentially collateral damage that they could treat like absolute shit until they actually proved themselves.

Eliot tilted his head, going for the death knell, “After that, feel free to attempt a dethroning coup. I always enjoy a spectacular suicide mission.”

Then he smiled, his most arresting, just to watch the boy fall to pieces under his magnetism. He wasn’t disappointed. Pink tinged the tops of those cheekbones and he swallowed, a slight bob to his Adam’s apple. Eliot's gut screamed to press close to him and something else—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—wanted to tuck Quentin’s hair behind his ears, feeling the soft strands under the pads of his fingers until the world fell away. But his brain was far too fucking sharp for all that physiological nonsense and so he simply smirked as the first year geared up for another surely devastating response.

But Todd cut Quentin off, immediately pulling at his arm and tugging him toward the couch. Eliot was almost disappointed, though also recognized that it was probably for the best. Going mano-e-mano with a twitchy baby bunny probably wasn’t in the realm of a fair fight.

“Sorry, he doesn’t know any better,” Todd said, his voice shaking. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

“Best you do,” Eliot said, straightening himself up and twisting his mouth in a bitter little smirk. “Au revoir, Todd. _Todd’s Friend_.”

Then he turned around on his heel, certain to never to give the first year another thought, ever again.

* * *

“Do you think there’s a worse fate than being friends with Todd?” Eliot asked Margo, wrapping her tighter into his chest and shifting comfortably under her warm weight. She smelled of baby powder, magnolia shampoo, and a Tom Ford cologne she wore as perfume, an intoxicating and comforting blend. “Or is it the pinnacle of doom?”

“Are you still on about that first year kid?” Margo tilted her head back to stare at him, a groan in her voice. “It’s been two fucking weeks, Eliot.”

“He’s irritating,” Eliot slit his eyes at Todd’s Friend’s adorably furrowed brow, like he could just come into Eliot’s house and _look like that_ while still being _Todd’s Friend_ in all his awkward, mopey antiglory. With a new rush of disgust at his own terrible taste, he blinked away before Margo could follow his line of sight. “And he’s a huge fucking nerd. I can’t figure out his end game.”

“Maybe he’s just a huge fucking nerd with oversized ovaries,” Margo shrugged, taking Eliot’s hand in hers and popping open his poison ring. She sniffed expertly. “Good for him.”

Eliot growled out his displeasure, biting the crook of her neck in retaliation. Bambi giggled and placed a firm kiss on his cheek. He brought his hand up to his own nose and the stars aligned in time with Margo lolling her head around, the effects of the coke hitting her breezily. He felt an intense rush of affection for her.

“My point is that nerds are nerds,” Eliot said lightly. He ran his fingers through his own hair, enjoying the tingling sensation. “He needs to stay in his lane.”

“Or he needs to get laid. Have someone fuck the nerd out of him.”

“No doubt about that,” Eliot laughed, braving another glance at Todd’s Friend now that Margo’s eyes were firmly closed. He was tying his long hair back into a messy bun and biting his lower lip in concentration about whatever the hell boring nonsense Todd was inevitably spewing. Todd’s Friend grinned a little at some stupid Todd said and he tucked a long errant strand behind his ear and god, he was still...not the worst face to behold.

Fucking _fuck._

He dragged his gaze back to Margo, who looked positively blissed out. He smiled.

“But I’m sure some equally high-strung Sally will be more than up for that tedious task in time,” Eliot said, reaching for his flask. The cocaine was an intense body high, but it did next to nothing for any of his annoying, intrusive thoughts, whether about life, Brakebills, the futility of human connection, his new mentor, the crushing inevitability of death, cute first year boys, the inescapability of his own failures, if Rihanna was ever going to release a new album and whether it'd be delectable pop garbage or deplorable pop garbage, or the harrowing trauma wrought deep from the shallow shores of abandonment that made up the nervous system of his childhood. Any of it. That— _that_ was where his oldest and truest friend, Alcohol, always had his back.

“High-strung Sally,” Margo snorted out a laugh, reduced to repeating Eliot’s jokes from the drugs. He loved her. “Probably always in missionary too. I’ll bet she’ll be like, _Omigod, Todd’s Friend, ah—ah—ahh—_ ”

Then she blew a raspberry, and Eliot giggled, too loud, too much.

“Then Todd’s Friend will be like,” he bit his lip, keeping the bubbling laughter at bay, raising his voice slightly. “ _Oh my god, I’m SO sorry, I'm so sorry._ On fucking repeat.”

And as Margo continued to play the role of Sally, disappointed and keyed up against the clumsy whims of Todd’s Friend, Eliot continued to laugh and laugh, luxuriating in his starry shivering skin and the best friendship he’d ever known.

He barely even glanced at Todd’s Friend again for the rest of the afternoon.

Except, okay, for maybe once more.

...Twice, at most.

* * *

Eliot loathed Astromancy.

Well, he loathed the class, even if it was the one Naturalism discipline that was semi-tolerable, insofar as it was practically Physical. But Abrams was a draconian pain in the ass who was always on his case and insisted that his innate talent at matter and gravitational manipulation didn’t make up for his supposed “complete lack” of work ethic. Like she fucking knew anything about him, the bitch. So naturally, because he did what he wanted without anyone's _concern_ or _encouragement_ stopping him, he skipped the class that day to make a Yuzu Highball, which on the final sip made the imbiber full of static electricity.

For shits, really.

The magic, as always, was the easy part. The means to the end toward the bright, brilliant world from which Eliot intended to suck the marrow. But getting the taste of the alcohol and Japanese citrus into perfect balance, ensuring the mouthfeel and the cold of Margo’s perfectly shaped ice was calibrated to a pleasing to the palate, that the color was a crisp amber color against the bright yellow lemon twist—all of these elements, juxtaposed against each other, pedestrian on the outset, they were what mattered in a shitty existence, lacking artistry and precision, heat and passion. That was what was difficult and worthwhile, and what he strived for, with every glass.

Bending down at the torso to examine the way the squared ice cube glinted in the light after finishing the traditional thirteenth stir of the liquid, Eliot barely heard the Cottage door open with a buoyant slam or the skippingly perky steps of some high-end stilettos that invariably belonged to his Bambi.

“Met your boy today,” Margo said, dipping into his line of sight with that cheeky little grin of hers that Eliot always wanted to bite. He chuckled, slowly dragging the stainless steel bar spoon around the radius of the tall crystal glass, because Eliot Waugh had never been fucking _traditional_ in his whole damn life.

Dragging his eyes up to her with affected impatience, he tilted his lips upward. “You’re going to have to be much more specific than that, Bambi.”

“I met Quentin.”

“Gesundheit,” Eliot tilted his head, passing over _that_ particular name with a hard swallow. Margo slapped his arm just hard enough that it stung a little. Saucy minx.

“Todd’s Friend, you asshole,” Margo said, assuming Eliot responded the way he did because he didn’t actually know the first year’s name. Good. Still, Eliot’s jaw tensed in time with his chest.

“Not my boy,” he growled. “He’s an obnoxious little fucker.”

“Mmm, but he’s cute,” Margo smiled. She smiled way too much and Eliot needed to shut it the fuck down. “You never said he was cute. Shoulda known though, with how much you yap about him.”

Eliot glared at her before turning his attention to the lemon, twisting the knife around the peel’s edge in a single movement, “I’ve never yapped in my life.”

“Yap, yap, yap,” Margo cocked her head back and forth, like a Pomeranian. “Cute, cute, cute.”

“Cute faces are a dime a dozen,” Eliot said, swallowing again, levitating the twist into the air and dropping it just so upon the ice. “And when they’re wrapped around the taut little form of a Dungeon Master straight boy with a hefty inferiority complex, they lose their sheen fast.”

But his devastating words did nothing to deter that obnoxious press of Margo’s lips. She put her hands on her hips and pressed her tits outward toward him, like she was victorious.

“You’ve thought about this for a hot sec,” she said, leaning her tiny weight against his work station. “Also, _taut_?”

“And you’re simply underestimating the lightning speed of my beautiful mind. I never think about… ah, Quentin, you said?” Eliot clarified—for show, but she didn’t need to know that—and Margo nodded. “What a fucking name.”

“I like him,” Margo announced, grabbing the drink out from under his hands and taking an unflinching sip. She nodded in approval and hoarded it to to her full open mouth, his work going down her gullet far more quickly than its beauty deserved. But Eliot figured she’d get what was coming for her by the end.

“Sure you do.”

“I mean it,” Margo said, finishing the drink. She blinked with a jolt at the electric current and shook her hands out once, before chuckling. She was far less disturbed than he’d hoped. He’d need to adjust the calibration, clearly. “He’s kinda funny. He’s sweet.”

Eliot snorted, “Historically, your most prized characteristics in a companion.”

“He and I actually talked for awhile,” Margo said, almost wistful, almost sweet. He glanced up in suspicion and horror at the sight: She was honest-to-god smiling. Eliot was suddenly quite nervous that she wasn’t just taking the piss out of him. “He likes Fillory too. A lot.”

“Right,” Eliot smiled, his brain racing over that word. _Fillory._ It sounded familiar. Fuck. Margo had said it a lot, in the same gentle tone. It was definitely one of those things he was supposed to know. “Sure. And of course, ah, I definitely agree that… she’s lovely?”

Nope. Swing and a miss.

“The book series I grew up with, dickhead.”

_Ugh, books._

“Ugh, books.”

Margo rolled her eyes and reached behind him for a glass and a bottle of scotch, before smiling to herself again, watching the dark amber liquid fall from the green bottle like in a trance.

“Anyway, he’s this adorable little super fan,” she said, popping the stopper back in the Lagavulin and placing it back on the shelf. She raised the glass to her lips and sipped, with a humming sigh. “Knows every page by heart.”

“That’s your rousing endorsement?” Eliot blinked, genuinely incredulous. “He obsessively reads kids’ books?”

Margo ticked her doe-eyes over to him and winked, “It’s endearing.”

Endearing.

_Endearing?_

“What the fuck?” He demanded, crossing his arms. “Who are you?”

“I like him, El,” Margo said with another short smack on his arm, but he was far less charmed this time around. She couldn’t be serious right now. “So I gave him carte blanche access to the Cottage and my company. Be fucking nice.”

Eliot let out a halting laugh and brought his eyebrows together, watching her every tiny movement, searching for her inevitable joke, the tell that would give away the part where she’d admit she’d been fucking with him all along. But when he couldn’t find it, he hitched his breath against his chest and throat, his brain churning for either an understandable explanation or, at least or at best, a way out from having to deal with it. When neither came, he went with what he did best: Detached disinterest.

“I suppose we’ve all got our kinks,” Eliot said lightly, forcing a small smile. He patted the top of her head, purposefully patronizing. “Have your fun. Bring a vibrator, though.”

But Margo just laughed and twisted her hips as she started to walk away from him, glancing over her shoulder. “Oh, I’m not going to fuck him. He’s my friend.”

Eliot froze all over again.

“Friend,” he said, narrowing his eyes. He tensed his jaw at her sweet head nod, like it was all perfectly natural and an expected point of order. “ _Friend_?”

“Yup. Friend,” Margo said, with a single shoulder shrug and a yawn. She turned entirely away from him and raised her whiskey glass in the air, rolling it lightly to indicate her desire. “Anyway, I want a frittata, so get on that.”

“Make your own fucking frittata,” Eliot shot out after her, grabbing a bottle of gin to busy himself with. The fucking gall of her, honestly.

….Though, of course, obviously he was going to make her a frittata. Bambi was an unmitigated disaster in the kitchen and he loved her, so he’d make sure she was well fed. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t let her sweat it out a little bit, what with her nonsense about Quentin.

 _Quentin_.

“Terrible name,” Eliot said aloud, to no one in particular. It made him feel better nonetheless.

* * *

It turned out, Bambi wasn’t fucking kidding. About any of it. Because, suddenly, Todd’s Friend was at the Cottage, all the fucking time. He was there every day, in Eliot's space, in his orbit, all around him like a cloak of perfume or a fucking relentless gnat. If he wasn’t busying himself with Todd and their goddamn nerdy bullshit, he was hanging off Margo’s every word like another one of her admirers, another hanger on. The only difference was, this time, Margo seemed to actually welcome the praise and was giving it back, reciprocal. Like she was being friendly.

Fucking _friendly._ What the fuck?

On that particularly awful evening, Todd’s Friend was crowding in on his and Margo’s wine time, where they split at least two bottles of red and relaxed on the couch. But that night, it was apparently not time for the world's most boring threesome, with Bambi’s attention focused far too much on the nervy enigma of a boy, who sat with his fucking boots up on the coffee table, like an animal. And not only _that_ , but Todd’s Friend apparently had two modes, with little in between: Either he sat silently and morosely in a corner, glowering at everyone. Or, it turned out—

“Uh, so then, they all just, like, stared at me, like it was supposed to be natural, like I could already control it,” he said, wide eyes equal parts incredulous and crazed at Margo, who had the tiniest hint of an amused smile on her own gorgeous face. “And then the Dean, uh, he fucking slammed his hand on the desk and it was like something snapped in me or—or—or maybe finally became whole, right? You know, for the first time in my whole stupid life.”

He talked animatedly, hands gesticulating wildly, strong eyebrows crawling all over his face, all while never _shutting the fuck up_. He spoke endlessy, janky and replete with an absurd amount of speech disfluency. He was the embodiment of the interjection _Um_.

Not that Eliot strictly hated it or anything, but it was undeniably a bit jarring, especially since wine time was meant to be a soft, quiet interlude, meant for soaking alcohol content into one’s bloodstream and breathing away all the fucking cares of the world. But Todd’s Friend _was_ all the cares of the world, rolled into a jumbled mess of limbs and sharp wonder. It made Eliot feel—

Unsteady.

And that couldn’t. It just couldn’t, he thought, taking a long deep sip of his wine and closing his eyes against the prattle.

“Mmm,” Maro finally said in response to the goddamn monologue, when the boy had to take a much needed breath. She was noncommittal as always and he fucking _loved_ her. But somehow undeterred, Todd’s Friend was still on his stammering roll, as he geared up for another round of rapidity. Eliot lit a cigarette and sunk into the couch, a swirl of unfamiliar emotions threatening to bring either a laugh or a sigh up through his mouth.

“Right, yeah, so I just, like, moved my hands and the cards I’d put down all started to fucking dance and they hung in the air, in suspended animation,” he said, plopping his head back against the cushion of the couch, unintentionally mirroring Eliot on the opposite side of Margo. The movement made his hair fly out and away, like bedhead. Eliot swallowed down the undeniable rush of desire that thought provoked, annoyed at his own weakness. “And I swear to god, it was the—the most beautiful fucking thing I’d ever seen. Just, like, fucking beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Margo asked softly, tilting her head. “A card trick?”

Eliot sucked in smoke until it burned. He wasn’t really sure how to process that either and so he opted out. But Todd’s Friend nodded, his hands circling near his chest with a smile, like there was nothing better than magic. It would have been almost cute if it hadn’t been so painfully naive.

“Absolutely, because it’s like, uh, you know, this fucking—um, this fucking paradigm shift? Like maybe a whole new form of myself, Or, uh, maybe like—like a, uh, a—“

“Have you ever thought about taking a deep breath before you speak?” Eliot asked over his cigarette smoke, only half snarking. The poor kid sounded like he was about to short circuit. “Gather your thoughts first?”

“Oh, wow,” Todd’s Friend shot out with a surge of hard articulation, not even glancing his way. “No one’s ever fucking suggested that before. Thank you.”

“Touchy,” Eliot said simply, dragging on his cigarette again. Todd’s Friend shook his head and set his square jaw, looking all the more intently at Margo, though he were willing Eliot’s presence away. It forced a strange wiggling sensation deep against his sternum, pricking down into his heartspace.

He blinked. That’s what he got for eating at the cafeteria earlier that day, like a plebeian.

“Oh, be nice,” Margo said with a tiny sharp glare at Eliot before turning her attention square back on Todd’s Friend. “So show us. Let’s see what you can do.”

“Uh, well, it’s not really actually impressive,” Todd’s Friend said, blushing. Fuck, okay. That was criminal. “Not like what my friend Julia can do or this, uh, blonde girl in my class—“

“That’s Alice Quinn,” Margo waved him off. “Don’t bother comparing. Magic royalty. I already tried welcoming her into the fold and she was such a cunt about it.”

“I mean, I don’t know if I’d call her that,” Todd’s Friend frowned, such a little boy feminist. “But yeah, uh, she’s kind of aloof. But whatever, anyway, um, my point is that I think my magic is pretty basic. Not much to see.”

“Fucking stop stalling and show us your tits,” Margo rolled her hand out, grinning almost genuinely at him. It was so fucking weird. “Come on, we need to know what we’re working with.”

With a resigned huff and a secret grin that was just— _come on_ , Todd’s Friend placed the deck of cards on the coffee table, bending over with his elbows on his knees, in concentration. He swallowed once, the line of his throat trembling under the faintest layer of golden-brown stubble, begging for a scratch of teeth along the grain. Eliot’s back flushed with heat and he took a sip of his wine followed by a drag of his cigarette, burying it all under his intoxicant army.

Todd’s Friend closed his eyes and snapped his fingers, once. The cards flew up into a circle, fanned out and up, like the Bellagio fountains, spinning wildly and jumping with a rhythm it didn’t seem possible the first year carried anywhere inside him. And Eliot prayed his face refused to show his reaction, the golden glowing awe right in the center of his chest.

Not because of the magic, of course. That was as rudimentary as promised. But the fucking look on Quentin’s—er, Todd’s Friend’s face.

The way he _looked._ God.

He was bright and open and proud, shining underneath the purity of his small, silly manipulation of air and paper was just—

It was—

It was too much.

Eliot’s heart rammed itself against his rib cage and the stars in front of his eyes only made Quen— _Todd’s Friend’s_ visage all the more dreamlike, all the more promising and untouchable, all at once. His mouth was dry and he couldn’t blame the smoke.

He needed to go. Now.

“Well, that was as underwhelming as promised,” Eliot drawled out, finishing his wine in a single gulp as the cards realigned themselves into a neat pile. He hopped up on his feet from the table and stretched his long arms over his head, to make a point. “Probably not a coincidence that I’m ready for bed now.”

Todd’s Friend’s soft brown eyes immediately dropped under heavy brows, with a swallow. Eliot nearly felt bad, but…

He’d done what he had to do.

“Ignore him,” Margo bit out with poison, hollow ice that frosted his spine as he started to walk away. “El gets off on being bitchy to first years. Nothing personal.”

“Uh, yeah, I kinda got that,” Todd’s Friend’s voice carried as Eliot ascended the staircase, his leather shoes slowly tracing their way without much feeling. “Whatever. But what did _you_ think?”

“I thought it was cute,” Margo laughed, and Eliot increased his speed until the laughter was gone, no longer resonating angrily off his mind’s walls and he was in his sanctuary, behind his wards, behind the darkness.

Sliding into his cool sheets, not bothering to undress, Eliot took another centering breath. He reminded himself everything he needed. He was Eliot Waugh. He had his Bambi, his Cottage, his parties, his drinks, his boys, his fucking incredible magic that was always there now when he was in need of a fucking escape, and above all else, he still had himself, stable enough and strong enough, after everything. He’d worked for this for years, certain and still. This was where he was meant to be, and nobody was going to fuck that up for him, goddammit.

Closing his trembling eyelids, Eliot placed his hand over his brow and let sleep envelope him like smooth silk, like the ocean of his bed cresting over him, like the stars falling down on his form in the moonlight. He had everything he needed. He was still. He was steady. He was strong.

He had everything under control, all on his own.

As always.

* * *

tbc.

**Author's Note:**

> And there we have the the absolute height of El’s assholery. It’s all emotional growth from here (featuring Eliot’s revelations, heartache, and eventual joy.)


End file.
